


In Your Patience Possess

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Couch Cuddles, F/M, Grey-Asexual Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having resigned himself to the fact that his supposed match is unrequited, Holmes waits for the moment when Watson will meet his own match. And keeps waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Patience Possess

**Author's Note:**

> This was largely inspired by [Gentle Antidote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2802470) by x_los – or at least, it wouldn’t have been written if that fic hadn’t made soulmate universes start bouncing around in my head. It was betaed by [faerymorstan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan), for whom all the hugs.

I could not help but twitch at the name _Watson_. But Stamford had introduced me already, and this man showed no sign of recognition, no excitement, nothing – so it wasn't him. It was a common enough name. He could not have missed mine.

 _John H. Watson_ was printed across his trunks and dispatch box, and I shook my head and saw to my own luggage. He would have recognized my name, if we were.

 _John Hamish Watson_ was written on the flyleaf of the medical textbook I had borrowed, in far too familiar handwriting. I stared at it for some minutes.

Of course it was known to happen. Of course I had never really cared for the idea of ‘soul-mates’ at all before I met him. Of course it was frowned upon between men, and society would have expected us to live as close friends and nothing more. I wasn't sure I wanted more, truly. But I hadn't thought fate could really be so cruel.

*

I decided I would not let it affect me. I had done well enough for myself alone; I would continue so. I did not tell him about myself or my work. I tried to keep my distance from him and let us live our separate lives.

I couldn’t. He showed too much of an interest in me, and he challenged me to prove myself to him, and I could not help myself – I never could, in those days. So I took him with me on a case, and that was -

Not a mistake; I could never call it a mistake, though it started me on a path I was certain would only lead to pain. I kept telling myself he was nothing special, that I was not fascinated by him, that there was nothing out of the ordinary in his remarks or his behaviour.

He appreciated me, that was my misfortune. He looked at me and he wanted to know more. He encouraged me and celebrated my victories and mourned my lack of recognition. And in himself he was...

He was, I thought sometimes, more than I would ever deserve. He was recovering, and uncertain of himself or his place, but unfailingly courteous and competent and kind – I could have written an encomium on him daily. All my fighting against it did nothing.

And he _did_ appreciate me, he liked me and was interested by me and if only that were enough, or if only I could think that someday that would grow into something more, but if he thought he was destined for someone else -

I hoped for a while, or tried to hope, that he _did_ have my name, and for some reason – my own lack of comment, or embarrassment at his state of health – he had said nothing. But one morning, about a year after meeting him, I woke him early for a case, and the sleeve of his nightshirt rode up to reveal the name _Morstan_.

“What is it, a fire?” he asked. But he was not truly upset at my waking him, and was downright excited at the idea of a case.

I left the room to give him privacy and leaned against the wall outside it for a moment, taking deep, slow breaths.

What it meant was obvious. I needed him, and he did not need me. I turned my thoughts to the distressed woman downstairs, and what she might be consulting me for.

*

He did not let it stop there.

Oh, there was nothing intentional on his part. But just as I had thought I had made myself forget it, had put my mind to other matters, he kept _looking_ at me. His eyes lingered on me, he held my hand a fraction of a second too long, and all of it was clearly so damned innocent, so absolutely limited. I'd seen all of his arm now, whether I'd wanted to or not, and while I did not imagine him to have been entirely chaste before now I knew that he would never erase that possibility for life. He was even looking, now that he was well again – looking through the medical directories and Army lists and peerages, hoping someone could direct him to her.

Many people were content to wait for fate's meeting. I tried not to be insulted by his desire to hasten the process. As far as he knew, I was nothing but his fellow-lodger. I'd kept my sleeves rolled down since meeting him.

And then she came straight to our door.

After seeing her card I said nothing, wanting just one more minute before he heard her name and his eyes brightened and I had to watch. But I welcomed her up, and introduced him as Dr. John Hamish Watson. She emphasized her name slightly as she said it – I had always heard that particular emphasis from people expecting to meet their matches. And he looked at her just as I had known he would.

And she looked at me. She showed no sign of recognition for him, no sign that her consultation with me had brought anything more than she expected it to. It made no sense.

It made perfect sense, of course it did. She was the wrong Mary, that was all, and he'd find another one, perhaps even some relative of hers. And her interest in me was only that of a client.

Watson asked to leave as soon as he had an excuse, but Miss Morstan raised her hand. She asked him to stay personally, and he sat at once, trying not to look captivated by her. She was never impolite to him, but it was not the immediate recognition he had expected, and I could tell it weighed upon him.

She focused on me as she told her story, and though I was worried about Watson’s feelings I was soon caught up in the case, and did not notice if he was interested as well, or too hurt to think of it.

She laid out the facts quite logically, starting from the earliest event she could connect with the main incident. She was clear and concise, and to my surprise she had preserved all the solid evidence she had, and could produce it immediately. Her case was interesting enough that I could not help but take it. I did not know if asking Watson along would be wise, but he agreed to come without hesitation.

She left with an imploring glance for me, but without a second look at Watson. He said nothing, however, and I attempted to distract him with handwriting analysis and Winwood Reade.

Miss Morstan arrived that evening, and Watson could not stop looking at her, and she could not stop looking at me, and I withdrew into myself in the cab. I knew Watson would assume I was thinking about the case – which I was – and that would release me from being obliged to make conversation. In order to investigate I was forced to leave them alone together, and the worry over whether this made matters better or worse for Watson kept threatening to overcome my focus on the circumstances, even when they proved to be more serious than anyone had thought.

He seemed to be immersing himself in the investigation to distract himself, however, and I could find no fault in this. But it stumbled into difficulties, and there was nothing I could do to hurry it, and I spent days trying not to see Watson’s hurt and confused expression, always in his eyes when Miss Morstan was mentioned, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

It took so long, and Miss Morstan came to visit to ask how we were progressing, and I could not turn her away. And Watson did not want to turn her away, though I privately thought he should. He was struggling, I thought, between his desires and his gentlemanly instincts. He wanted to tell her, to know how she would react, to see what was written on her arm (though I hoped he was not fooling himself into hoping it was his name), to at least ask her if she knew who his name might refer to, if it was not her. And yet he hated the idea of forcing a sense of obligation on her for something she could not help. He was too kind and courteous for that.

So he was happy to see her, and miserable at the same time, and trying as well as he could to hide it. I thought it worked on Miss Morstan; it would never have worked on me. I wished I could find a way to not have to watch.

It was made worse by the fact that I found Miss Morstan fascinating. She was a model client, she was charming, and she showed signs of a decided genius for my work, which I hadn’t expected to see in a woman, and which was surprisingly attractive. She was caring and calm in a crisis and she would have been wonderful for Watson. I wanted her to be the right Mary; if I had to relinquish Watson I would be glad for him to marry her. I wanted an excuse to spend more time with her. I found myself thinking of her personality when I should have been looking for steam-launches.

Once I realized this I tried to hide it, lest Watson feel abandoned on all sides. I wanted to comfort him, and knew no way of doing it. I had thought involving Miss Morstan in the investigation was necessary, but I wondered if this was in fact merely my own interest in her showing, and I had been hurting Watson by doing so. I despised the thought, and tried to focus on him alone, as I had before any of this had started.

At last, one evening near the conclusion of the case, I found myself placing my hand on his shoulder and saying, “It is not such an uncommon name.” Such remarks had never made me feel any better, but I could think of nothing else.

Watson stared up at me from his armchair. “Holmes,” he said, “do you think...” He stopped himself, and I waited. He did not stop looking at me. He did not look sad, not exactly. He looked – god, no, there was something wrong with how I was reading expressions. His expression. I tried to keep mine sympathetic and nothing more, and still could not look away from his eyes. If it had not been for the years knowing it was not a true match I would have shown him my arm at that moment. I would have forgotten all about names and mates, and all that nonsense I had scorned before meeting him, and bent down and kissed him. He was not looking at me like a man in the midst of a disappointment.

But I had years of resignation keeping me distant from him, and at last he quietly said, “Nothing,” and smiled sadly, and reopened his book. I sat down at my chemical table and focused on hydrocarbons. When Watson rose to go to bed he stayed a safe distance away from me.

I put all my energies the next day into investigating the boats on the river, and we managed well enough. Watson would no doubt write a thrilling account of the chase and our near escape; I have neither the skill nor the interest for it. We broke open the treasure box after landing on shore.

Watson stared at the empty box for a full minute and then said nothing as Jones raged at Small and Small started on his history. I was eager enough to hear whether my conclusions had been correct that I did not pay my friend much attention after we’d returned to Baker Street. But after they left he threw his cigarette in the fireplace and rose.

“It is late,” he said. “Good night.”

I let him go up. Most nights after the conclusion of a case we would talk, discussing the events, the people involved, the logic of the solution. I treasured those talks. But I knew we could not have had anything like that tonight. I considered the bottle of cocaine on the mantelpiece.

*

The next day I delivered the disappointing news of the empty box to Miss Morstan myself, so that Watson would not have to. I left him making notes on the case, and he did not ask where I was going.

Miss Morstan asked what had happened the night before, and I told her of it as best as I could, wishing I had Watson’s powers of storytelling. This particular incident would benefit, I thought, from his style; it was more of an adventure than a scientific enquiry. But I was always wishing for Watson now, even when he would be completely unhelpful.

“Fascinating,” said Miss Morstan. “I wish I could have seen it.”

I finished by telling her of the dart that had narrowly missed us, and to my surprise she went pale, and I found her a glass of water.

“It is nothing,” she said. “I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my – my friends in such horrible peril.”

“It is all over,” I said. “The box itself is empty, but it must be worth something on its own, and you have your pearls. But let me tell you of Small’s motives.”

She seemed interested while I spoke, but when I finished she sat still, twisting her hands in her lap. “I know this is a great loss to you,” I said, but she was already shaking her head.

“It is not that,” she said. “It is – I mean, I suppose it is. I had not thought about it. Thank you for all your efforts.”

I wondered if I should enquire further, but decided it was merely the shock making her nervous. “I’ll take my leave then, for now.” She nodded. “If I learn anything further, of course I will bring it to you, and the police will likely want your testimony. Good day.” I rose and turned to the door.

“Stop,” said Miss Morstan, her voice choked.

I turned again, to find her looking more strained than she had hearing of our danger – more strained than I had ever seen her. “What is it?” I asked. She inhaled deeply, and shook her head.

“Miss Morstan?” I crossed to her chair. “Are you all right? I know it has been a shock -”

“Mr. Holmes,” she interrupted, shoving up her right sleeve, “ _look_.” I did, and was met with the staggering sight of my own name.

“Miss Morstan,” I managed to say, before I realized that I had nothing to follow it with. The idea that the name on her arm referred to some other Sherlock Holmes was admittedly ludicrous.

“I think,” she said, “that you do not have my name. I expect nothing of you. But I wanted to be certain, and I thought that either way you ought to know. And perhaps you know of a relative -”

“I do not,” I said – the only answer I could be certain of. I sat again, trying not to look as if my legs had been about to give out.

“I – Watson,” I tried again.

“Oh.” She nodded. “I thought you might. Thank you for trusting -”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. Watson has _your_ name, Miss Morstan.” She looked startled, but thoughtful rather than shocked. This might – it might - “And I,” I continued, “have his. I have not told him – I am not, it seems, as brave as you are.”

“Oh,” she said, with the same growing comprehension I felt.

We sat in silence for some minutes, to my relief. I needed to settle matters in my head, and the personal nature of this one was not making it any easier. I shoved the background of the case aside – I would catalogue it better later. Right now, Watson was unhappy because he had thought he had found his match and she had not recognized him, Miss Morstan had made a dramatic gesture expecting it to fail and it had – not failed, exactly – and I -

I had no idea. Nothing changed for me, I supposed, unless either Watson or Miss Morstan wanted it to. And they would, of course, but I could not imagine how.

“We must tell Dr. Watson, whatever else,” said Miss Morstan, and I came back into the world. “I do not blame you for not doing so, heaven knows. But now – Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, you do not resent my telling you this, do you? I could only -”

“Of course not,” I said. “The opposite. Miss Morstan, I admired you before I knew any of this – I am not going to spurn you now. I think you are right, however; we had better tell Watson. None of us has been doing well with limited information. Then the three of us together can decide.”

She smiled at me, and her eyes might have been brighter than they should have been.

*

I took Mary – that is, Miss Morstan, upstairs without drawing Mrs. Hudson’s notice. Watson was still seated at his desk, but he was not writing, and had not been for long enough for the ink in his pen to dry. He dropped it as we entered, and rose.

“Miss Morstan,” he said, still the picture of gentility. “Holmes?”

“We’ve something to show you, Watson,” I said, and was startled by the flash of worry in his eyes. Did he think – whatever he thought, it was all the more reason for me not to be nervous now that it had come to the moment of revelation. “I think you’d better sit back down. I apologize for – well, you will see why.”

“What on earth do you mean, Holmes?” He had, I thought, relaxed a little, now that I was being familiarly cryptic. I shrugged off my coat.

Miss Morstan unbuttoned her cuff, and I set to work on mine. Watson’s eyes widened, and he did sit down, as we finished rolling up our sleeves.

Then he looked from her arm to mine, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Oh, thank God. I thought I was going mad.”

“Why?” I asked. My heart had decided it already knew the answer, and was attempting to pound through my chest. Watson, however, blushed and said nothing.

“Because he wanted you,” said Mary, and then both of us blushed even more.

“But you were looking for her,” I said. “Of course you were, I don’t mean to say that it was wrong of you -”

“I looked for her because I was unnerved by what I was feeling for you,” said Watson. “And I didn’t want you to think I was – well. I had no idea of that.” He gestured at my arm. “But once I met you, Miss Morstan, I wanted you for yourself as well. And you showed no sign -”

The remembered hurt was clear on his face, though he was again trying to hide it, and Mary said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have,” said Watson. “But after that I knew – I hadn’t known before what I felt for Holmes, and now I felt it for both of you, and I thought there had to be something wrong with me, with my heart -”

“There is not,” I said.

“It is very strange,” said Mary. “I heard your name, Mr. Holmes, and came here expecting something I had never felt before, and it didn’t happen, and then when it did it was for Dr. Watson first, and I was so confused.”

“It makes one wonder what the purpose of these names are. We might be better off without them.”

“At least if it were still true that we _would_ meet our match,” said Watson. Then he suddenly turned to me, horror in his eyes. “My god, Holmes,” he said, “it has been six years.”

“Yes, it has.” I did not want to speak further of it.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and I waved a hand impatiently.

“You could not have known,” I said. “There was nothing either of us could have done.”

“But my dear Holmes -” He sighed. “Let me express sorrow for you at least, if not regret. I understand why you did not tell me then, but I wish you had.”

I attempted to smile, and Miss Morstan smiled more truly and shook her head.

“Come,” she said, “let us sit down. I don’t want to presume – you two have known each other far longer than I – but tell me more about yourselves, whatever you want to tell.”

“You can presume, as far as I am concerned – or don’t be afraid of it, Miss Morstan,” said Watson.

“It must be Mary,” she said, smiling – a little nervously but happily. “You must presume as well.”

*

We let Mrs. Cecil Forrester believe that Mary’s match was mutual. But, Mary explained, I was dedicated to my work and the higher goals of scientific reasoning, and therefore we would not marry. This allowed Mary to resign her position and move into Baker Street without scandal. She wanted such a place, with an acceptance of domesticity that I found hard to understand but that Watson relaxed into almost immediately.

I played the nervous suitor for a brief time for Mrs. Forrester’s benefit (and Mrs. Hudson’s, though I doubted she believed a minute of it), trying to ignore how clearly hilarious Watson found the attempt. It might, I told myself, be good practice for a case.

What made me nervous was that I didn’t know if I might in fact be uninterested. I had never been interested before. Even after meeting Watson my dreams had ended at being allowed to touch and look my fill without fear of judgement. I had not thought about sharing a bed, or anything beyond that. I waited for Mary to move in, and told myself that such matters were to be left until then.

Mary and Mrs. Hudson cleared out the bedroom next to Watson’s, talking and, I hoped, striking up a friendship as they did so. And she moved in, and instead of becoming more complicated life became easier almost at once. Mrs. Hudson managed the house, and Mary assisted without impinging on her prerogatives. Mary and Watson talked of everyday things together and did not expect me to care, and the three of us talked of cases and the world and what we had seen or observed. And I busied myself with my work, and when it was scarce with the growing euphoria in my chest. I hadn’t thought I could be so affected by such things, but even Watson could easily see that I was.

And I had been right – Mary was bright, and thoughtful, and had an excellent memory for detail. Watson asked questions that were often illuminating; Mary made suggestions. I had always delayed telling Watson my theories, for the pleasure of seeing him amazed when they were laid out before him in full; but Mary was so helpful I almost wanted her as an audience at all times. She did not wish to come with us on investigations, however, and so Watson and I had those as a continuation of our earlier friendship.

I assumed that they would want to allow some time for us to better know each other before anything further happened. But along with the surprising joy came a growing sense of waiting, as if to be judged. It was ludicrous, of course, to think that my emotions were so caught up on this one question. I would be the same as I had always been, whatever occurred; this nervousness must therefore be related to something else. Change, perhaps.

Mary and Watson ambushed me. I had been stretched out on the settee, and I suppose since I had complained about the lack of cases only that morning it was clear enough that I was not preoccupied with a mystery. Suddenly my head was in one lap and my feet were in another and I looked up to see Watson peering quizzically at me. I rather thought it should be the other way around.

“Are you settled in your mind about this?” he asked.

“This relationship?” I asked. “I never expected anything conventional, Watson; that isn’t worrying me at all.”

“Well, there are different kinds of conventional,” he said. “Holmes, my dear, you know that I can’t imagine leaving you, right?”

He has a way of coming to sudden, surprising insights (though I thought that in this case he had not done so entirely alone). My mouth fell open, and I endeavoured to close it while almost unable to move. Because it was true. The idea of Watson leaving made me shake. I had pretended I had resigned myself to it, but after meeting Mary it had become clear that I had not. It had been weighing on my mind even now, when I should have been entirely reassured. I had been trying very hard to pretend this was not true, and that there was no reason for me to still be nervous.

Mary ran her hand gently along my leg. “I don’t know what you want from either of us,” said Watson, “but it doesn’t matter. We don’t expect anything from you.”

“Except that you are yourself,” said Mary. “Except that you continue being everything you are.”

“I do understand that in terms of personality,” I said. “But – you need more than solved cases. And it’s unfair to expect you to either -” I realized suddenly that I was about to speak of sex in front of a properly brought up young lady. I’d never imagined having to do so before. “That is. I am not even certain that I would _not_ prefer chemical experiments to – sex, and even if I do like it it’s unfair to expect to be tutored in it.”

“Is it unfair that John will have to tutor _me_?” asked Mary. “Because I’m quite looking forward to the prospect.” I looked up, startled, and she smirked a little shyly at both of us. Watson was blushing, but looked rather pleased with himself as well.

“I’m sure I can handle the strain,” he said. “But you don’t – that is, I – I do want you, Holmes, but only as long as you are comfortable. And if you aren’t – even if both of you weren’t – then I am quite happy with your company, and solved cases, as you put it.”

“Do believe him, Sherlock,” said Mary. She was still stroking my legs, firmly enough to be comfortable. And I did believe it, at least that they would be happy staying, whatever other desires they might definitely have. And it might not even be relevant, I might quite enjoy it – the idea was at least decidedly not repellant.

“You like this, though?” asked Watson, his hand playing with my hair. I sighed an affirmative, and turned my head so he had better access. He smiled, and his free hand reached along the back of the settee to hold Mary’s.

“You decide what you want to do, when,” said Watson. “If anything. That’s entirely in your hands. But do you mind if Mary and I...?”

He had hoped I would answer before he had to finish the sentence. Mary’s hands had stilled. I did not look up to see if she was blushing, or if Watson was trying to think of anything else to say. I stared at his waistcoat buttons instead, surprised, and said, “I want to watch, at least once. And – see.”

“Oh,” said Mary, her hand tightening on my knee. “Yes?”

“Yes,” breathed Watson.

“Not now,” I said, and Watson’s fingers gently ran along the line of my jaw.

“Tonight, we were hoping, if there isn’t anything else on hand.”

“You know there’s nothing else on hand; London is being dreadfully boring.”

“If you’ve nothing else to do, then,” said Watson, “you can stay here for a while.” His right hand slid down to my chest; his left stayed in my hair. Mary raised my legs a little and shifted closer to him. Her hand met Watson’s on my chest. I placed my hand next to theirs, and Mary picked it up and kissed it, and then they held me together.

**Author's Note:**

> For the porny epilogue, see [Inward Trembling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9470597).


End file.
